


Petrichor

by ContreParry



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bonding, Childhood Memories, Gen, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7928719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContreParry/pseuds/ContreParry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jesse was a young boy, he let the rare New Mexico rain wash over him.</p><p>Across the world, another young boy also felt the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrichor

When Jesse was a young boy, he would stand outside and let the rare New Mexico rain wash over him. 

He ran barefoot over rocky paths and through rough scrub, past twisted piñon and pale sagebrush, as soon as he caught the faintest scent of rain. He climbed to the flat, wide mesa top and watched as the purple clouds fat with rain rolled across the sky. And when the thunder rumbled like the hoof beats of a thousand wild horses, Jesse would race the storm until he was breathless and the rain had washed the red clay dust off his dark skin. 

And when he returned home to Mamá's scolding ("You will catch your death in this weather, mijo! You little devil!"), Jesse would give her an easy apology, promise to be less careless, and then go to his room without his supper. But no matter how sincere his promise was at the time, the moment his nose caught the sharp cool scent of rain and freshly wet earth, he slipped off his shoes and ran out to meet the storm. 

When it rained, Jesse felt _free_.

-

A Shimada was calm in manner and ferocious in deed. A Shimada should remain dignified and reserved. A Shimada should be like a river, flowing ever steady and with purpose. A Shimada could _not_ be anything less than controlled and self-contained. A Shimada could be nothing less than perfect. 

Hanzo remembers watching the rain fall in Hanamura when he was young. Genji despaired at the bad weather that prevented him from playing outside and charming visitors to the Shimada estate with his broad foolish smiles and warm welcomes. He would roll on the tatami mats and groan, loudly complaining to Reiko-san that he was bored, bored, _bored_! 

Unlike his younger brother, Hanzo looked forward to the rain. The household was busy with their everyday tasks as well as looking after a despondent Genji. No one could be spared to look after the eldest Shimada child, for which Hanzo was grateful. It meant that no one was around to watch him. No one saw Hanzo sneak out his bedroom window and clamber down a cherry tree to reach the ground, and no one saw him run into the private gardens to stand in the rain and watch as the drops splattered against the water in the koi pond. No one could scold him for risking his health wandering out in the cold without supervision. No one watched as Hanzo walked through the garden and let the raindrops soak through his clothes and chill his skin. 

Hanzo would watch the clouds, their purple black bellies full of lightning, and think of dragons. Think of power. Think of _freedom_. 

-

Jesse McCree was no longer a boy, but a man. He traded his bare feet for boots and spurs, his bare head for a wide brimmed hat, and running across the mesas was replaced by a motorcycle that could cut though Deadlock Gorge in five minutes before anyone could spot him, take aim, and take him out. He was a full fledged member of the Deadlock Gang, brash and brazen and bold as brass. He may be young, but he could swear and drink and smoke with the best of them. Hell, he'd killed more men than he had years, and his arm was steady and his eyes sharp. The thrill of the heist was as electrifying as a lightning strike, and there was no replacement for the feel of a gun in his hand.

But even then Jesse would feel the need for something more, something primal and untamed that had nothing to do with smoking and drinking and shooting up rival gangs. So he'd get on his bike and ride across the desert until he saw the low hanging thunder clouds clinging to the dusty red earth, and the fresh scent of dirt and water intermingling filled his nose. As sheets of rain poured down on him in those rare desert rain storms, Jesse would fling his head back and laugh as he became one with the storm. 

-

Hanzo Shimada was rising in the clan's hierarchy. He was young, it was true, but not untested. Father trusted his judgement enough to send him on negotiations alone. Small negotiations to be sure, nothing like what Father and the Uncles (Mother's brothers) did on a regular basis, but the point was that they believed Hanzo was a capable leader. They believed he was worthy to lead the clan. He trained harder to prove their faith in him was justified, pushed himself more to show he was worthy of their praise, and he dragged Genji to every training, every meeting, every short mission he could to show that he could be a leader when called upon. Genji would whine and complain, but Hanzo was determined to prove their worth. As brothers they would lead the Shimada to greater heights than ever before. 

Yet there were times when Father's quiet praise and the hushed rumors of the elders' approval was not enough to soothe the aches and needs inside him. Hanzo often wondered if it was the dragons that lurked within him that caused this restlessness in his soul. He'd gaze up at the cloud covered skies and wonder what it would be like to fly. And when it rained with those heavy summer storms, Hanzo would train in his private courtyard alone. His blade flashed like the lightning above, his feet was like the thunder rumbling in the distance, and Hanzo _became_ the storm. 

-

The nice thing about the world was that it rained just about everywhere, Jesse thought wryly as he lounged on the balcony of some hotel in London, watching the light drizzle turn the grey streets below into a foggy mystery. He left the Deadlock Gang and the desert behind him for brighter opportunities: putting his skills to use instead of rotting away in a dim jail cell. It hadn’t been much of a choice when Overwatch burst into Deadlock Gorge and took them down with a vicious efficiency that sent his head spinning. He wouldn’t see the sky if he was in a cell. So Jesse joined Overwatch because he had no other options. Jack Morrison, Strike Commander of Overwatch, looked him over, shook his head, and sent him to Blackwatch. Sent him to Gabriel Reyes. 

Gabriel Reyes, _Rey de Reyes_ , King of Kings. Meanest son of a bitch Jesse ever met. Toughest too, and he wouldn’t hesitate to call any of his agents to the mat to beat them down when there was a whisper of insubordination in the ranks. Jack Morrison might be Strike Commander of Overwatch, but Reyes was King of Blackwatch, and he did not tolerate traitors. But as tough and mean and brutal as Reyes was, he understood how Jesse thought. He didn’t look at Jesse like he was just a criminal or a stupid kid. He knew Jesse McCree was the best in his field, and he expected results from the best. And Jesse delivered. He was one of Blackwatch’s finest agents. Hell, he was one of Overwatch’s best, and he knew Reyes puffed up like a proud rooster whenever his agents were praised. He pushed Jesse hard (“Get up and get at ‘em, pendejo, you ain’t dead yet!”), but Jesse wanted to be pushed. He taught Jesse how to be a better shot, a better spy, a better _person_ , and for what Reyes didn’t know he got someone else to step in: Morrison, Doctor Ziegler, Torbjorn, Reinhardt. Amari. He learned more from an early morning of drinking coffee, black, with Ana Amari than he did in all his years with the Deadlock Gang. 

But it got to him sometimes. Sure, he killed with Deadlock. Shot plenty of men dead where they stood. But Blackwatch was harder. It wasn’t always simple killing. It wasn’t always cut and dry. Sometimes he felt like he wasn’t much of a hero when he was done. 

Jesse took a long drag of his cigarillo and blew out, the smoke twisting with the fog in the wet night air and London smog. The rain dripped off the wide brim of his hat. The rain was cold on his skin, but it didn’t feel freeing as it did when he was a boy. It just felt cold and dirty. Jesse didn’t know if the rain could ever make him feel clean again. 

-

No matter where he went, at least there was food to eat and a place to rest his head. Hanzo could find contentment in that much. He sat under the overhang of a cheap hotel’s wrap around balcony in Hong Kong. It was late at night, or perhaps early morning, and the heavy rain ensured no one would be out and about. Hanzo took a sip from his flask of sake and stared out into the grey streets and the rain that washed everything away. Hanzo was here, in Hong Kong, doing what he never thought he would do. Hanzo was slowly dismantling the Shimada clan, piece by piece. There would be nothing left, because the clan had taken everything from him. The clan took Genji. 

Genji was dead, and Hanzo knew he had no one to blame but himself. Father died, and the clan scrambled in the chaos his death caused. Hanzo took on the burdens as leader of the clan, and drowned his sorrows in drink and work. Genji… Genji went wild, throwing himself in idleness and the arms of men and women to find some kind of peace. The elders urged Hanzo to talk to him, to put Genji back in his place, and Hanzo _tried_ , but words were said and blows exchanged and now Genji was dead. Hanzo left the clan the next day. 

He did what he had to. The clan needed to be put to rights, and Genji’s behavior was destroying the clan. But in his heart Hanzo knew it would solve nothing. In the end he had killed his brother. Genji, who was loud in almost everything unless he wanted to be silent. Who was brash and honest and overly kind to every stray dog on a street corner. The little sparrow who only wanted freedom, and Hanzo killed it. Killed him. Even though it had to be done, Hanzo only knew the ashes of defeat. Pyrrhic victory. Hanzo achieved his aims and restored order to the Shimada clan. The cost was Genji. There was no triumph here. His honor had been reduced to a husk. There was nothing left. 

Hanzo took another drink of his sake and stared out into the streets below. The rain poured down, and Hanzo curled closer to the wall. The rain reminded him of those nights in Hanamura, when he trained to take his place as the head of the Shimada clan. Those stormy nights that were so full of promise, the rain that had once made him feel strong, only made him feel cold and alone. 

-

Jesse McCree was hiding out in a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains when Winston sent out the recall. It was late at night, but there were no stars out to greet him. The clouds were out in full force, black and blue rimmed with silver moonlight. He stared at his communicator, the screen flashing blue against his face. In the distance an owl screeched. The air was filled with the scent of rain. He stuffed the communicator in his back pocket and stepped outside for a bit of night air. 

Overwatch. He left Overwatch behind him when it started falling apart around his ears. It was too much, too heavy a burden on his soul: the secrets, the constant travel, the killing. Blackwatch was a millstone around his neck, strangling him with its weight. He may have done good in the world, but Jesse McCree never forgot that he did a whole lot of bad to achieve it. 

His mentors were dead, their mementos buried in graves instead of bodies. Jack Morrison, Strike Commander, the golden boy super soldier who always believed there was something they could salvage from the wreck of a human being that was Jesse McCree, was gone. Gabriel Reyes, King of Kings, had descended from his throne, his bitterness destroying the man Jesse knew long before the explosion in Switzerland took him away forever. And then there was Ana Amari, sniped out of existence by an unknown shooter. Ana, who took him under her wing and taught him that pulling a trigger was an act of deliberation, a last resort. Taught him that taking aim meant weighing a destiny, and that taking the shot was cutting that thread. Ana, who taught him restraint. Ana, who told him compassion was not weakness, but to take responsibility for his bullets. For his shots. Ana, who cared for him at his worst and praised him at his best. God, he missed her. When he lost them he couldn’t stay, and he left Blackwatch with a hefty bounty on his head. He’d been running ever since. 

And now Overwatch was back from the dead, Winston resurrecting the lumbering beast with the push of a button. 

Jesse stared out into the wilderness, listening to the rumble of thunder and feeling of the wind on his face. The world needed justice. The world needed heroes, or at least someone willing to do right by those who lived in it. But Overwatch might not be the answer. It failed before. But Overwatch had done good. Maybe all Overwatch needed was a second chance. 

Maybe he needed a second chance. 

The thunder rumbled, the heavens opened up, and it began to rain. Jesse tipped his head back and let the rain wash over him in a baptism. A renewal. A rebirth. 

-

The storm was coming off the sea when Hanzo landed in Gibraltar. He hitched a ride on a train, then a boat, and finally a small fishing vessel before climbing up to the watchpoint itself. Halfway through his climb it began to rain. But he didn’t particularly care. He had more important things on his mind. 

Genji was back from the dead. And Hanzo didn’t know what to do about it. 

It was easier when he was dead, Hanzo mused bitterly as he climbed up a sheer cliff face, water dripping down his back. Hanzo could wrestle with guilt and ghosts well enough. But now he had a brother again. What was he supposed to do with a brother who no longer needed to be mourned? He tore his world apart because of what he had done to Genji, but now Genji was back. How was he supposed to move on from this? 

Genji said it was time to pick a side. So Hanzo was making a choice, one of the many he had to make since he left the Shimada clan. He would go to Overwatch. He would see if he had a chance for redemption. He had been searching for it for so long that Hanzo was a bit apprehensive now. Redemption was close at hand, but would it really be redemption? Or was he doing this out of a sense of obligation? Of guilt?

He would just have to wait and find out, Hanzo decided. He had dismantled the Shimada clan in the years since he left. And now he knew he had had help. He knew of the Overwatch raids, the shipments that were suddenly confiscated, the arrests of clan members who were normally so careful. He had suspected it was a mole in the clan. He now knew it was Genji, working with the information he had, destroying the people who tried to destroy him. Genji had paid more attention than Hanzo gave him credit for. 

Genji, who had always worn his heart and his contempt on his sleeve, was now a mystery to him. And perhaps he always was. Hanzo never understood his brother, even when they were children. But it wasn’t too late. 

He had another chance. 

Hanzo pulled himself up to the top of the cliff and lay back on the sand and scrub grass as the rain dripped on his face. It wasn’t too late. He could make things right. He could learn about his brother again. Hanzo closed his eyes and let the rain wash away his exhaustion and regret.

-

The newcomer was a funny one, McCree reckoned. Hanzo Shimada was gruff and prickly and as dignified as a pampered house cat, one with perfectly groomed fur and a ridiculous name like Fluffy Britches or Princess Pumpernickel. He drank tea during the day and sake at night while watching the moon. Jesse wouldn’t be surprised if he played chess and did crossword puzzles. To the casual bystander, Hanzo Shimada was a handsome, aloof, slightly grumpy man. 

But Jesse McCree was no casual observer. He saw it in the way Hanzo moved- those silent, fluid steps, his quick climbing, his graceful movements, the strength in his limbs. Jesse McCree would swear on an entire stack of Bibles that Hanzo Shimada was a genuine assassin based on the way he _walked_. Add to that Hanzo’s sharp features and those eyes as dark as coffee, and Jesse was more than a little interested in his new coworker. He was a breath of fresh air. Hanzo Shimada was a storm rolling in over a mountain.

-

Genji’s companions were strange. There was the super-intelligent moon gorilla, the cheeky pilot from Britain, and a great bear of a man in battle armor. But out of all of them, Jesse McCree was the one who caught Hanzo’s eye. 

Perhaps it was because the man was flashy. From his wide brimmed hat to the spurs on his boots, McCree was there to draw the eye and make a statement. But it was oddly charming. _He_ was oddly charming. McCree had an easy manner and a wide smile. He joked with their teammates and took naps on the break room couch. He was like a dog, a mutt with shaggy hair and bright eyes, content to lean on your leg for a bit of attention. 

Hanzo always liked dogs, though his father never let them have pets. Too messy, and they required too much attention that would have to be cut out of his son’s training regimen. Hanzo wanted a dog as a boy, one that would make a mess of his belongings and keep him company on his travels. He would have wanted a dog that was like McCree, easygoing, with a pleasant nature.

But there was a ferocity to Jesse McCree, a brutal efficiency and deadliness that contrasted with his dog-like friendliness. He may be lazy off the field, but he was anything but in battle. His strikes were swift and sure. He was flashy and bright, fierce and strong. Jesse McCree was a lightning strike.

-

"You ever see a storm over the plains?" Jesse asked. 

"No." Hanzo replied. 

"Shame. Damn pretty sight." Jesse took a swig of coffee, black. "Can see it miles out, big black clouds over dry earth. Sometimes you can see it raining over some patch of ground far away. When I was a boy I'd chase the rain storms." 

It was some time between dawn and morning at the watchpoint. The sun was hidden behind large pearly grey clouds. Hanzo stood beside him, sipping on a cup of bitter green tea. The wind brushed the loose hair off his face and the nape of his neck. It whirled and played with Jesse's messy locks. Thunder rumbled in the distance, so faint it blended in with the crash of the waves below.

"When I was a child." Hanzo remarked quietly as he stared out where the sky met the sea. "When I was a child, I would walk in the rain. It was soothing." 

"I'd run around in it like a heathen. Mamá nearly tanned my hide, being so reckless. Said I'd drown in an arroyo." Jesse laughed at the memories. 

Slowly, so slow that it seemed an age before it actually happened, Hanzo dropped his head on Jesse's shoulder. 

"I wanted to be the rain." He said, his rough voice soft and wistful. "I wanted to be at peace." 

Jesse dropped a kiss on the top of Hanzo's head, into the soft black hair streaked with steel grey. 

"You'll get there, sweetheart. You'll get there." 

They stood together in the rain, and the air was filled with the scent of salt and petrichor.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's my first attempt at an Overwatch story. Thank you for reading! I appreciate it!


End file.
